


Something New

by hearmerory



Series: Change of Address [16]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Autistic Zuko (Avatar), Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Child Abuse, Crazy Azula (Avatar), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone’s getting therapy, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Gen, Getting Help, Healing Azula (Avatar), Hearing Voices, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Support Groups, Therapy, institutionalization, we all need therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearmerory/pseuds/hearmerory
Summary: Azula’s first ever therapy session takes place within the walls of an institution.Sokka’s first therapy session since his Mom died takes place in the campus health clinic two days after he passes out from sheer exhaustion.Zuko can’t go to therapy without feeling the ache of his childhood doctor’s ruler smacking across his palm, but maybe there are other ways to talk.
Relationships: Azula & Ozai (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Hakoda & Sokka (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Ozai & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Change of Address [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928572
Comments: 82
Kudos: 286





	1. Within These Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Guys! This fic is the first multichapter in the series, and we’re using it to finally get these children into therapy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azula’s first therapy session.
> 
> Takes place a couple of days after Ozai’s Love (if you haven’t read that because of the trauma tags, there’s a non graphic summary in the end notes. It’s not 100% essential reading for this, but it gives a LOT of context)

In her dreams, he’s always on his knees.

Sometimes he’s shoved face first into a corner.

Sometimes he’s hiding in his bedroom, shuddering under a blanket by his bed.

Sometimes he’s smiling, and feeding the ducks at the pond.

Sometimes he’s screaming on the kitchen floor as the stench of burning flesh attaches itself to the walls.

But he’s always on his knees.

And, no matter how old he is, in the dreams, Zuko is always scarred.

She can’t remember his face without the twist of red and purple mottling across his eye.

She didn’t used to think they were nightmares.

She used to wake up in the middle of the night, the sound of her brother’s cries etched across her brain, and think it was fine. That it was normal.

That every family was like this.

That every father had a favorite and a spare.

That every spare whimpered in a ball in the corner of the kitchen for hours after their father left them there.

That every favorite sometimes woke up with a gasp on their lips as they automatically went to throw themselves out of bed to help their sibling, and had to restrain themselves from sprinting towards the banging and shouting and crying from the room across the hall.

She doesn’t think she thinks that anymore.

Now, sitting in the small room with sunlight streaming through the windows, other patients wandering around in the garden, she can barely even remember if it was real.

She’s only been in this place forty eight hours, and the outside world already feels distant and colorless.

It might be the fact that she slept without nightmares for the first time in years the night before.

It might be the three pills she was asked to take before bed, or the two she took this morning.

It might be the shock.

Because seventy two hours ago, Father had left her.

Father had told her driver to take her to Iroh’s instead. And when she’d got there, the old man had been standing in front of a stack of her possessions in his living room.

She had raged, and screamed, and hit his stupid, soft belly with vicious fists, but he had just stood there, and taken it, and then pulled her into the first hug she’d had since she was too small to know to wriggle away from her mother.

And she’d made her confession.

How Father had told her that she’d electrocuted her brother in a bathtub tinged pink with his blood. How she didn’t remember. How she couldn’t stop hearing the voices, baying for blood in her head. How her mother’s voice, urging her to leave her father’s house, begging her to seek out her brother and uncle, was the loudest of them all.

And he had wiped her tears away with a warm, calloused thumb, and hugged her again. And he’d told her about this place.

She’d come here willingly, in the end.

He promised they would help with the voices. With the endless screaming in the back of her head, echos of her brother’s cries.

So she’d come.

And she’d slept.

And she’d taken her pills.

And now she’s sitting opposite a middle aged man, one of his legs bent casually over the other, his dark jeans and burgundy sweater accenting his look of polite sympathy.

“Azula,” he asks softly, breaking the almost peaceful quiet of the room. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

She nods, unable to quite trust herself to speak.

“Why do you think you’re here?”

“My Uncle thinks I’m crazy,” she folds herself up into the chair, perching on her feet and wrapping her arms around her knees, “and my Father doesn’t want me.”

It hurts, that admission.

Father _always_ wanted her.

She is, _was_ , his favorite. His good child. His loyal daughter, ready and willing to do exactly what he said, how he said to do it.

Not anymore.

Tears prick at her eyes and she holds them back with tight fists. She will not show weakness in front of this man.

“Your uncle told us that you’ve been hearing voices,” he says, and his voice is honey, soothing as it reaches her ears.

She nods, once, not daring to say it out loud.

“Can you tell me what that feels like? Or what you hear?”

Azula hunches in a little over her legs.

Hearing voices is never a good sign. Hearing voices gets you locked up, and drugged, and abandoned.

“I want to work with you, Azula,” the man’s voice washes over her again. “We can work together to help you deal with this.”

Azula nods slightly. She _wants_ to deal with it. She wants to be able to go _home_.

“There are lots of them,” she says quietly.

“Do they say anything?”

“They... not all the time. Most of the time they just... it’s just like buzzing, or whispering, and I can’t hear it. But... a week or so ago...”

She trails off. She doesn’t want to talk about Zuko. About the belt, or the blood, or the bathtub.

“What happened last week?” He asks, and she can tell he knows already. It’s in his eyes, the spark of pity that usually lit up in other people when they look at Zuko.

“M-my... my father... he had to, Zuko was being... but he... and then I...”

She can’t finish a thought, and the voices swell up in her head, loud enough that she barely conceals a flinch.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He smiles gently at her, and he looks so calm and accepting that the voices settle a little, and the room feels warm instead of icy.

“Zuko... my brother... fell asleep at the table. Father was so angry... I’ve never seen him angry like that before. Zuko never learned, he was always fucking up and being rude and not listening. Father had to do it. He _had_ to.”

“What did your father do?” He asks, and there’s that gentleness again, like she can tell him things and he won’t hate her.

“He...” Azula’s throat closes a little. She’s never told anyone. She’s not _allowed_ to tell. Not allowed to let anyone know about the bruises or the burns or the sheer terror of seeing splatters of blood on the floor in the morning. “Father just wants...”

She finds the words, old words her father had told her, so long ago, the first and only time she’d shot a worried glance at her brother’s slumped form.

“He had to _learn_ ,” she says firmly, and the voices roar in appreciation, “he’s weak, and useless, and he never does as he’s told. Father only does what is required.”

The man nods slowly, and she sees his tooth hook slightly over his lip before pulling back into his mouth.

“As I understand it...” he said slowly, “your brother is currently in the hospital with some serious injuries. Is that how your Father hopes he will learn?”

Azula hears the slight edge of disgust in his voice, and feels her own horror echo back. The voices rear in protest.

She shakes her head, trying to get them to be quiet, and it helps, a little, for a moment.

“He was disrespectful,” she whispers.

“Respect is important to your father?”

“The most important,” she nods.

“What happens, when you or your brother are disrespectful?”

She represses a whole body shudder.

“I would _never_ disrespect my father,” she hears the arrogance and the surety in her voice, and it feels wrong somehow. Like it doesn’t fit.

“What about your brother? What happened the other night?”

Azula shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut.

The voices tumble to the front of her brain again, and the rough voice that had chanted at her to make her brother _hurt_ , to make him _quiet_ , to make him _pay_ , is loudest of all.

“Father made him hurt,” she doesn’t try to whisper it. She tries to say it offhandedly, and she’s horrified to hear the childish quietness of her words.

“What happened, Azula?” He asks so gently. Everything he’s said has been gentle. No one is _ever_ gentle with Azula.

So she tells him.

About Zuko falling asleep at the table after almost three whole days of not being allowed to lie down.

About Zuko’s yelp of terror when the first blow hit, his eyes wide in confused disbelief.

About the blood that spattered across her father’s belt and hands and face. The drops that sprayed up to hit the wall. The little rivers pouring down the layers on layers of bruising on her brother’s back.

About the voices, _screaming_ that he deserved it. That it was the only way to shut him up. The only way to make him behave.

About her mother’s voice, begging her to help her favorite child. Begging her to save him as his wailing cut off into fast, bubbling breaths.

About feeling like she wasn’t even inside her body as she watched her father place Zuko into the bath.

About the long, black, silent hours after she’d taken off his t-shirt and turned on the water.

About Father, hours later, looking at her like he was afraid. Telling her what she’d done. Asking if she truly didn’t remember.

About telling him that she didn’t. That the voices told her to do it. That mother had been there, talking and walking and breathing like a real person.

About Father telling her no one else had been there, and her world falling apart.

About walking through her classes the next day and barely seeing anything.

About getting in the car and realizing she wasn’t being taken home.

About Iroh’s understanding smile and sad eyes.

She tells him everything, and he listens.

“Was this week the first time you heard the voices?”

It seems odd, that this is his first question. That this is what he focuses on.

She shakes her head.

“When I was twelve,” she admits, and it’s like admitting to weakness. To failure.

She doesn’t flinch when he adjusts himself in his seat, but it’s a near thing.

“Can you remember how it started?”

“I... I was...” she screws her eyes shut, trying to remember. Trying to think back to the Before. To back when her head was quiet. “Father was away,” she remembers out loud. “He was on a business trip. And I was by myself.”

“Did he leave you alone often?” He asks, and there’s that quiet pity again, the edge to the voice people normally point at Zuko.

She nods once.

“The fourth, maybe fifth day,” she bites her lip, “I was... I was mad, and I... I was alone, and then... and then I just _wasn’t_.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“I...” she doesn’t know how to answer. Scared. Angry. More alone. Almost powerful. Protected.

“I imagine that it must have been frightening?” He says, and there’s that gentleness again, grating slightly in her ears but lurching something in her chest towards him.

She hums noncommittally, unwilling to give him the ammunition.

They sit in silence for a few long moments, and she has nothing to say.

One of the louder voices whispers.

How easy it would be to leap up and throttle him.

How there’s a letter opener on his desk that would embed deeply in his throat.

How the blood would flow.

A different voice snorts in derision.

She wouldn’t be able to get to him in time.

He’s bigger, and more powerful, and she is a weak little girl who allowed herself to be half sedated, who let them tell her what to do.

Her mother’s voice sighs and caresses her face with a ghost of a touch.

Azula screws her eyes shut, and it doesn’t make the voices stop.

“Azula?” He asks as the silence extends.

The voice isn’t whispering anymore. There’s an opportunity. He’s off guard. He’s not even blocking her way to the letter opener. She can hurt him. She can make him stop asking. She can make him bleed, and watch the things that make him gentle and soft and warm spill out of his neck like a slaughtered animal.

Her mother objects.

Her mother begs, like she begged for Zuko.

Begs her not to hurt him, not to waste this opportunity to talk to someone kind.

“Shut up!” She screams it, and her voice echos through the room as she launches to her feet. “Shut up!”

He jumps a little, a smaller flinch than she’s ever seen Zuko make, and the voices roar in appreciation.

She clutches the sides of her head and glares at him.

“I don’t want to be here!” She shouts, and her voice cracks with the volume of her rage. “Let me out!”

“I’m sorry, Azula, but you—”

“Father will come for me!” She screams, and she feels her sharp edges shred through the blanket of medication. “Father will come get me! I am _not_ _weak_!”

“I know you’re not,” he leans forward, and his eyes are full of sad surety.

“Shut up!” She shouts again, “ _let me out_! Let me go! I want to speak to my father!”

She pulls her hair, and the voices screech, unbearably loud, chanting for blood.

He pulls out a small pager from his pocket and presses a button, and she snarls,and hurls herself across the gap between them.

She sends them crashing backwards in his chair, and his head hits the ground as her fingernails swipe hard across the weak side of Zuko’s face.

How dare he still be talking, walking, looking at her, when Father had told him to be silent, and still, and had tried so hard to teach him?

She screams as her hand closes down over his left eye and her fingers dig into his scalp above his ear, where the scar should be, but he somehow managed to cover it, somehow managed to hide the brand of shame and disappointment and anger and failure.

Vaguely, she hears the door burst open as she wreaths her hand in flames.

The fire doesn’t burn him, but he looks afraid, looks like he _should_ as she screams obscenities and straddles his stomach and lights him on fire.

And then she’s being pulled back by strong arms and blue scrubs.

She flails, and registers that she’s still screaming, and tries to dart for the letter opener but then there’s a sharp pain in the side of her neck, and the world tilts on its axis.

She feels herself falling, and then she’s being lowered to the ground, and someone is standing over her but it doesn’t matter because the voices aren’t screaming and neither is she.

And then there’s just blur.

And then there’s just dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.  
> Therapy is hard.  
> The boys will have a better time, and we know Azula gets way better in the next few months.  
> But I’m still sorry 😭


	2. Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko unequivocally, irreversibly did not want to go to therapy. But maybe there were other ways to talk.

Zuko had chosen to take Sociology of Equality and Diversity mainly because of the rush of pleasure he got from knowing his father would have hated it.

While he wasn’t quite as invested in it as Sokka was with any of his classes, Zuko enjoyed the readings and listening to the discussions the other students had, and he’d been getting good grades on his assignments.

But it was harder than in his other classes to stay focused. Especially when they kept talking about things that made him think too deep.

Like the privilege walk.

The professor had cleared their desks to the side of the room before they’d even arrived, and Zuko had stood awkwardly against the wall, waiting for everyone else to file in.

He read the instructions on the board several times, letting himself internalize them. He didn’t want to be the only one who didn’t understand the rules.

Eventually, when the entire class was milling around the room, chatting and reading the board for themselves, the professor clapped loudly for their attention.

Zuko flinched minutely at the noise and adjusted the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. The fluorescent lights and the chatter were bad enough without her making sudden bangs.

“Alright! I trust most of you have heard of this exercise before, but in case you haven’t, we’ll go over it. Everyone line up on that wall please!”

Everyone moved over to the wall Zuko was propped against, and he felt himself stiffen with the sudden influx of people.

“Single file against the wall! Face the firing squad!” The professor grinned as some of the students tittered, her greying hair pulled tight into a bun on top of her head, brandishing a sheet of paper. “Alright. So, you’ll take a step forward or back if one of these statements applies to you. If you don’t want to move, you don’t move. No pressure, no judgement. Everyone should be looking at their own feet, no peeking up to see where anyone else is. This is an internal, reflective exercise to help us understand our privilege and our place in society. Everyone understand?”

There was a general murmur of agreement, and Zuko nodded his head slightly, back pressed against the wall.

“Okay. Easy one first! Take a step forward if you get breaks from school that align with the religious holidays you celebrate,” she read off the list. Zuko stepped forward with most of the class. Most of his holidays lined up with school vacations, even if that was just because they also lined up with the solstices.

“Take a step forward if you are not the first person in your family to go to university.”

Zuko stepped forward again. Everyone in his family had gone to college. He thought for a second of Sokka. He was almost certain that Hakoda hadn’t been to university, and Kanna didn’t seem the type. Maybe Sokka was the first in his family.

“Take a step forwards if you’ve ever been offered a job by someone in your family.”

Zuko stepped forward again, thinking of The Jasmine Dragon.

“Take a step forward if you grew up in a home with more than fifty books.”

He took a step, Uncle’s shelves of fiction and self help tomes contrasting dully to the leather bound encyclopedias in his father’s study that had hurt so much when they were thrown across the room at him.

“Take a step forward if you’ve received money as a gift from someone in your family.”

Zuko stepped forward, his hand fluttering a little as the two images fought for dominance in his brain. Uncle, slipping an extra ten into his coat pocket as he went out with his friends. Father, throwing a handful of crumpled bills onto the floor in front of him, telling him to buy his own dammed lunch if he was going to keep passing out.

“Take a step forward if people of your race and gender are usually portrayed positively in the media.”

Zuko took a cautious step forward, and realized suddenly that he was one of the furthest forward in the room.

A hot prickle of embarrassment shuddered down his back, and he ducked his head so he didn’t have to look at anyone.

The professor read off several more points, and Zuko stepped forward for all of them, shame building in his stomach.

He was so ungrateful. Took so much for granted.

There were people here who weren’t stepping forward for basics. Never had to move house because your family couldn’t afford rent. Never heard your parents arguing about money. Never been randomly selected for a police stop and search.

By the time she’d finished reading out the first list, he was right at the front of the room. He’d stepped forward for every single privilege. Every single one.

His shoulders were tensed up to protect his neck, half convinced that someone was going to throw something at him.

“Take a step back if you rely mostly on public transportation to get around.”

Slowly, Zuko took a step back. He couldn’t drive with his eye, and walking too far always made him tired and his chest ache, so he took the bus any time Sokka or Uncle didn’t drive him.

“Take a step back if you spoke a different language at home than at school.”

He stayed where he was, and heard the shuffle of steps behind him.

“Take a step back if you’ve ever been teased, bullied or hurt because of something you can’t control, like your race, gender, sexual orientation or disability.”

Zuko clenched his fists to stop his hands from fluttering, and took a step back.

“Take a step back if you were raised primarily in a single parent household.”

He thought about it for a moment, and decided that eleven years with his mother and father was longer than the seven years after that with either Father or Uncle, and didn’t step backwards.

“Take a step back if you have ever been diagnosed with a disability. This can include neurological or learning difficulties, vision or hearing issues, mobility issues, chronic illnesses, and anything else that you believe counts.”

Zuko stepped backwards, shoulders hunching even higher.

“Take a step backwards if you’ve ever been a victim of a hate crime.”

Zuko remembered Sokka sitting cross legged on his blue comforter, saying those words as his face screwed up in anger when Zuko told him about being hurt for being gay, or for his brain being weird, and took a step back.

“Take a step backwards if you have ever had to skip meals.”

Zuko wrapped his arms around his stomach protectively, remembering the sharp pain of hunger as he stepped back.

“Take a step backwards if you’ve ever been hit by someone bigger or more powerful than you.”

Zuko felt his shoulders tense hard as he stepped back again, and he could feel himself breathing more harshly.

“Take a step back if you have ever been sexually assaulted, harassed or abused.”

Zuko’s heart stopped, and he listened to the shuffle of movement around him for a moment before he stepped back too. He could almost feel everyone’s eyes on him.

“Take a step back if you’ve ever had to leave your home, family or country due to violence or fear.”

He felt his entire core recoil, shuddering inside his chest as he stepped back, remembering the terror and the agony of waking up in the park with his face burning and a flip phone clutched in a weak, shaking hand.

“Take a step back if you’ve ever witnessed domestic violence.”

Glass shattering against the wall next to his mother’s head as she pleaded with his father to stop shoving him into the corner.

He stepped back, and there were a lot of people in front of him.

The shame bubbled up again.

They were all watching him, stepping further away from that weird spot in the front with each of the nasty things the professor called out.

“Take a step back if anyone in your family suffers from mental health issues.”

Azula, driving her nails into his scar over the visitors table at the institution, shrill laughter echoing in his ears.

He didn’t have to take any more steps backward.

Step back if you’ve been followed in a store like you’re going to steal something. If you’ve felt pressured to join a gang. If you’ve never had a teacher the same race as you. If you’ve been accused of a crime without real evidence. If you or someone in your family has been incarcerated. If you’ve grew up in an area with criminal or drug related activity.

He stood in the middle of the room, slightly further towards the start line than the end, surrounded by a solid chunk of the class.

The professor called the end of the activity, and he dragged his seat back to where it was supposed to go, never taking his eyes off the floor.

He pillowed his head on his arms as he crossed them on his desk, and let the blank buzzing fill his mind so he didn’t have to think anymore.

Didn’t have to think about being at the front of the room, the most privileged person in the class.

Didn’t have to think about taking a step back, over and over, as she read out impersonal statements that all carried dozens of memories and sharp, stabbing feelings in his chest.

An indeterminable period of time passed before he snapped back to reality at the sound of his name.

“Zuko Sozin, Anna Jones, Nolu Za and Beng Hailo, please stay back for a moment after class. Everyone else, assignments are due Thursday by end of day.”

There was a massive, grating roar of chairs being pushed out, and Zuko shrank in on himself, his leg bouncing wildly against the floor, barely managing not to reach up and cover his ears.

He waited until the majority of the students were out of the room before he stood up and made his way to the front desk with the three girls.

The professor smiled gently at them.

“I noticed that you four stepped backwards when I mentioned sexual assault,” her eyes roamed across their faces and Zuko tensed hard. “I’d like to give you a business card for the local support group.”

She reached into her desk draw and pulled out four cards, handing them out. Zuko took his with shaking hands.

“That’s all, thank you,” she dismissed, and they turned as one to leave the room.

“Where the fuck does she get off?” One of the girls burst out the second the door closed behind them. “Singling us out? Dozens of people admitted to shitty things and she didn’t feel the need to send _them_ to support groups!”

She ripped the business card down the middle and threw it into a trash can as they walked past.

“Yeah,” another girl shoved her business card into the trash too. “That was really fucked up. What kind of exercise was that anyway? Just another opportunity for fucking white people to try and shock their little white liberal students into understanding their privilege and making everyone else feel like shit in the process.”

“Exactly. It’s so fucked up.”

The two girls took a left down a different hallway without acknowledging the third girl or Zuko, and he heard their angry voices ringing down the corridor.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweater to hide that they were still shaking. He still clutched the business card in his fist.

“I don’t exactly disagree with them,” the third girl said quietly, “but they’re a bit much.”

Zuko let out a huffing sigh of what might pass as laughter.

“Yeah,” he shrugged.

“I’m Nolu,” she didn’t put out her hand for him to shake, and he was absurdly grateful for it.

“Zuko,” he nodded.

“I might check out this group,” she brandished the business card. “Therapy’s fine, but talking to people who’ve gone through the same shit might be better.”

He shrugged, his hand curling tighter around the card in his pocket.

“I’m going to Lit now, but I’ll see you around, Zuko,” she smiled at him, and he managed to force his eyes to her forehead and smile thinly back.

She turned down the next hallway, and he was alone again.

* * *

  
He kept hold of the business card for days, not looking at it.

It burned in his pocket, like it was taunting him.

It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to talk about it. About his father. About being... touched. He didn’t need to talk about it. He’d told Uncle, in the barest terms, the fact that it had happened. He’d told Sokka, in a little more detail, when he’d needed to know.

But he hadn’t talked about it to anyone else.

Or talked to anyone in any detail.

Not about the lingering sense of wrongness, or the little panicked flutter his heart still did when Sokka touched him.

He didn’t need to talk about it.

And the thought of telling someone... of exposing himself that way... of exposing his _father_ that way... was terrifying.

That shouldn’t have bothered him. Exposing his father. Telling people that he did something wrong.

But it _did_.

He’d had that lesson drilled into his head since before he could even talk. _Don’t tell_.

The idea of people knowing was repugnant. Dangerous. Scary.

But he didn’t want to feel that wrongness. That fear. That worry. And he didn’t want Sokka to have to deal with it. It wasn’t fair to pile everything on Sokka.

Sokka’d told him that therapy was helpful. That he would probably gain something from talking to a professional.

But he couldn’t stop himself from panicking whenever he even tried to think about it, memories of the stuffy office he’d been trapped in with Zhao for hours every week flooding his mind and making his hand ache with the phantom pain of slaps with the damned ruler.

He didn’t want to go to therapy. But he didn’t want to be a burden on Sokka. Didn’t want to feel that sharp stab of fear whenever he thought about his father.

So he took the business card out of his pocket when Sokka was out at class, and read the words so unapologetically printed in black ink on white stock paper.

_Domestic Abuse Shelter. Sexual Assault Survivors Support Group. Wednesdays 8pm._

He took a breath.

It was Wednesday already. He had four hours to decide if he wanted to go.

* * *

The building was unassuming, just off campus and with no sign outside. It looked like a normal house.

Zuko felt his heart skipping beats, and he tried to steady it with his breathing, walking himself through some of the meditations Uncle had taught him.

It barely helped.

It was an almost out of body experience, walking to the front door and knocking. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, his heart beat thumping out of rhythm in each pulse point, vision a little blurry around the edges.

A tall woman with carefully combed dark hair opened the door, looking at him in clear confusion.

“Deliveries come on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she said a little harshly, “we’ve made that very clear to all the delivery companies, and we’re not expecting anything today.”

“I...” Zuko frowned in confusion. This wasn’t the script he’d been rehearsing, “I’m not... I don’t have a delivery.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Then why are you here?”

“I-I... I thought...” his hands twitched at his sides, and he focused his entire self on keeping them still. “M-my professor told me... she gave me a business card.”

“We don’t let random students in to do whatever project it is you’ve been sent for,” she snapped, “go write about something you understand.”

“I... what?” Zuko shook his head, unable to quite grasp what she was talking about. “I thought this... is this where the... the support group is meeting? At eight?”

She frowned, and her hand closed on the door, ready to shut it.

“We don’t allow people to sit in on the support group,” her lip curled in disgust. “These women come here for a safe space, somewhere they can talk freely about the things that have happened to them. This is not a _spectator_ _sport_ , young man.”

“N-no... I...” he felt the world tilt a little on its axis. He hadn’t thought this though.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” she said firmly. “Do some research and learn some respect for the traumatic experiences you’re trying to gawk at.”

Zuko felt his stomach plummet, and a desperate desire to sink into the ground overwhelmed him.

Learn some respect.

“I t-thought this was... a s-sex... a sexual a-a-assault s-survivors group?” He stammered out, “I’m... I’m sorry, I meant... I meant no disrespect.”

The woman tilted her head slightly.

“Were you aware that this is a woman’s shelter?” She asked, a little more gently than she had before.

Zuko felt himself flush with humiliation, regret washing through him.

“O-oh...” he breathed, “oh, shit... I’m... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean... I just thought... I didn’t know it was only for... shit, I’m so sorry, I’ll go, I didn’t want to intrude, I just...”

He scrambled back, feet heavy and his hands clenched against the trembling flutters fighting to get free.

“I’m sorry, she gave me the card and I didn’t _think_... I’m sorry, I’ll go, I didn’t mean to...”

“Hey!” The woman stepped forward, closing the gap he’d made between them, and he flinched violently, certain that she was going to grab him, or slap him, or scream at him for daring to take up space in this. For daring to think he deserved to be there.

“Hey,” she said more quietly, her hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. You... you didn’t know this was a woman’s shelter?”

“N-no,” he tried desperately to hold back the tears clogging the back of his throat, but his voice came out wobbly. “I-I _swear_ I didn’t... I wouldn’t have come. I didn’t mean to intrude, I promise, I just...”

To his absolute horror, the tears broke free, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the moisture, taking a damp, rasping breath through his mouth.

“Oh, hey, sweetie, it’s okay,” she sounded so much nicer now. He wrapped his arms defensively around his middle. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed... you’re right. This group isn’t just for women, that’s just the shelter. You’re more than welcome here, if this is where you need to be.”

He pushed a trembling hand to his good eye, forcing the tears back, and his palm came away damp.

“I didn’t even _want_ to come,” he shoved his hand into his hair, tugging a little at his scalp. He hated how desperate, how childish his voice sounded.

“Come on,” she cajoled, “you can come in. We have tea, and some cookies.”

His stomach clenched with desperate homesickness at the thought of tea, and he could almost feel Uncle’s soft shoulder under him as he leaned against it.

Slowly, he nodded, his entire body quivering and sparking with unspent adrenaline and embarrassment.

“Good,” she said softly, “good lad, come on then. We’re getting started right now. You’re welcome here, I promise. My name’s Sela.”

Zuko followed her into house, and through into what clearly used to be a living room, but was now occupied by a circle of folding chairs and a table full of drinks and snacks.

He refused to look at any of the people inside, his brain alight with singleminded determination to pour himself a cup of tea before he broke down.

“Good evening everyone,” Sela greeted the small group, who all mumbled their own greetings back. “We have two new friends with us today, so let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves. Everyone take a seat, please.”

Zuko dumped his teabag into the trash and took his paper cup over to the circle of chairs, sitting down gingerly in the middle of three empty seats, so no one had to sit next to him.

Two of the women were eying him suspiciously, and he knew, with absolute, bone crushing sincerity, that they were afraid of him.

It sent a jolt of horror through his stomach.

He didn’t want anyone to be afraid of him.

He barely breathed as the six women introduced themselves, and then they were all looking at him. Staring.

“I-I...” he tried to take a deep breath, and his fingers tapped fast on the tip of his thumb, one by one. “M-my name’s Zuko, and I...”

“It’s okay, Zuko, you don’t have to tell us why you’re here right now,” Sela said quietly after a few seconds. “So, let’s take a moment to go over the rules, okay? We don’t interrupt others, we never raise our voices, and we always believe other people’s stories. Most important of all, nothing anyone says here leaves this room. Not names, not stories, not random comments about what someone else had for breakfast. This is a safe place, and we can speak freely here, but not everyone is safe outside, and it’s vital that we respect that by keeping confidentiality. Does everyone understand?”

Everyone nodded, and Zuko let his fingernails stab into his palm on the hand that wasn’t tapping.

“Alright. Does anyone have anything to share about their week, or about how they’re doing?”

Zuko listened as they all talked, as they seemed to settle down into the space, moving from fairly causal updates about their weeks into deeper things.

Nightmares, and panic attacks, and never wanting to be outside by themselves.

Trying to date new people, trying to move on.

Time flowed past him like he didn’t quite exist, like nothing here was real except the incessant tapping of his fingers against his thumb.

“What about you, Zuko?” Sela asked quietly, and they all turned to face him.

“W-what?” He whispered.

“Would you like to talk about what brings you here today?”

“I...” he didn’t want to. Not even a little bit. But... that was the point, wasn’t it? To talk, even if he didn’t really want to. In the hope that it would make it better. “I just wanted... to be around... around people who... who get it?”

“That makes sense,” one of the younger women nodded. “I felt like I was the only one who felt this way until I came here.”

The others nodded a little too, and he felt a tiny bit of the tension bleed out of his shoulders.

It came back almost instantly when he realized they hadn’t looked away from him. They expected him to share something.

In a moment of panic, he opened his mouth and let the first thing fall out.

“I want my boyfriend to be able to fuck me,” he said, a little too loudly.

There was a moment of silence.

And then the younger woman burst out laughing, doubling over a little in her chair.

“Damn, kid!”

Zuko blushed fiercely.

“Settle down,” Sela rolled her eyes a little, a small smile edging the sides of her mouth. “Want to tell us more about that, Zuko?”

Zuko felt his face and neck darken again, and he stared down at his lap, unable to make eye contact with any of them.

“I... I just... I want him to be able to touch me. And for it to just be... normal. But it’s not. I can’t... I feel... I don’t just feel _him_ , when he does.”

The laughter was gone, and the others were nodding solemnly, like they understood.

“That’s really hard,” Sela smiled sadly. “Would you like to tell us more?”

Slowly, Zuko looked up, and took in the little group of encouraging faces.

Closing his eyes tight shut, he nodded.

“M-my f-father... he... he found out I was g-gay when I was thirteen. He... he hurt me, and I went to live with my uncle. But I went back, at the end of sophomore year. And he... he hit me. And asked if I’d kissed a boy. I... I t-told him I... that I had, and he... he... he held me d-down, on the ground, and he... he put his fingers... inside me... and I couldn’t... I couldn’t _do_ anything! He’d... most days. For months.”

There was a moment of quiet while the others digested it and Zuko tried to breathe.

“How old are you now?” One of the older women asked gently. “How long ago was this?”

“I... I’m eighteen,” he whispered. “First time was... about a week after my sixteenth birthday.”

“That’s not all that long, kiddo,” the woman smiled, “you’re okay with your boyfriend touching you?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. I just... not there.”

“Makes sense to me,” she shrugged. “I didn’t let my husband anywhere near me for a solid year. Even now, there’s places he knows not to touch. It’s part of it. Might go away, might not. Perfectly normal.”

Zuko felt something like relief collapse in on itself in his chest.

Normal.

Perfectly normal.

“R-really?” He looked up at her shoulder hopefully, his hand spasming briefly in interest.

“Yeah,” she nodded firmly. “You’re doing fine.”

* * *

Zuko ran all the way back to the dorms with an uncontrollable grin on his face, and burst through their bedroom door at speed.

“Sokka!” He yelled, excitement and a swooping sense of freedom scrambling for purchase in his gut, “Sokka, it’s perfectly normal that I don’t want you to fuck me.”

“Um...” Sokka blinked up at him, mouth open in surprise. “Um... Katara, I’m gonna... I’m gonna call you back tomorrow.”

Zuko blinked at the laptop open on Sokka’s desk, Katara’s video feed showing her with her hands over her mouth, face red and trying not to laugh.

“Bye!” Sokka yelled at the screen before slamming the laptop closed.

Zuko blinked again. So much blinking.

Sokka dissolved into giggles.

“Spirits,” he gasped between his laughs, “spirits, Zuko, her _face_!”

Zuko grinned back, bouncing a little on his toes as Sokka wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

Sokka stood up and came to him, pulling him into a firm, warm hug, and Zuko felt all the remaining tension in his body melt away as he leaned into it.

“Tui and La, you are perfect,” Sokka left a kiss on his jaw as he pulled away, and Zuko felt himself flush. “Now what were you trying to tell me?”

“I, um, I went to a support group,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “For people who’ve... for sexual assault survivors.”

Sokka froze for a moment, his hand tightening just slightly on Zuko’s arm.

“Good,” he breathed out a second later. “That’s good, Zu, I’m so proud of you for doing that.”

Zuko let the praise settle over his skin, warm and gentle like Sokka himself.

“I told them some stuff. About Father. And about you. How it’s... hard for me. Sometimes.”

Sokka leaned into another hug, wrapping his arms firmly around Zuko’s waist. Zuko rested his own arms around Sokka’s shoulders, and they fit easily together.

“Was it helpful?” Sokka whispered into his neck.

“Yeah,” Zuko whispered back. “They said... they said it was normal. Not to want you to touch me like that. They said it would be okay eventually. Or maybe that it wouldn’t ever be okay. And that it’s normal.”

“That sounds right,” Sokka kissed the divot of his neck and shoulder, and squeezed just a little tighter.

“I think I’m gonna go back next week,” he said quietly, sinking further into the hug. “I... I think it’d help.”

“I’m glad,” Sokka choked a little. “And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Zuko closed his eyes and let Sokka guide them over to the bed, arranging themselves to wrap around each other.

“Love you,” he whispered.

“Love you,” Sokka’s warm breath tickled at his ear.

Perfectly normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure, so maybe I have a little axe to grind against that whole privilege walk exercise, but ya know what? Writing is catharsis, and it fit.
> 
> Next up is Sokka, his session is taking me a while to figure out, and I’m writing up another long Azula and Zuko focused thing, as well as a Mai centric one over the whole timeline.


End file.
